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Shivansh's POV
I opened my eyes to a room that felt heavier than when I had shut them.
The dream still clung to my skin like smoke — her face, her voice, the blast. I sat there for a moment, letting my breathing settle, before my gaze drifted to the calendar on the side table.
Today.
A date I could never ignore, no matter how much I wished I could tear it out of existence. Her death anniversary.
The morning did not come to me gently.
It pressed itself into my room like an uninvited guest — the soft, cold light slipping past the curtains, the air carrying a chill that crept into my skin no matter how tightly I wrapped the shawl around my shoulders. I had woken up before the alarm. I always did on this day. My body remembered before my mind wanted to.
For a long while, I just sat at the edge of the bed, elbows resting on my knees, staring at the floor. The faint ticking of the clock was the only sound.
And her voice — not real, but in my head — as clear as if she were here: "You'll be late, Shivansh. Pujari ji won't wait forever."
I stood, washed, dressed in a plain white kurta-pajama, and wrapped my mother's old Kashmiri shawl around me. It still smelled faintly of sandalwood and the storeroom where she kept it folded for special occasions. Today was one of those occasions.
When I stepped out of the car, the temple stood before me in all its quiet dignity.
It wasn't large — not one of those sprawling, gold-domed structures people photographed for Instagram — but it was old, weathered, with red sandstone steps smoothed by years of bare feet. The white shikhara rose modestly against the pale sky, and from somewhere inside, the faint, rhythmic ding of the ghanti called to me.
The air was heavy with the smell of burning camphor, marigold flowers, and freshly lit incense sticks — that mix of sweetness and spice that always pulled me back to childhood visits here with her.
I climbed the steps slowly, removing my shoes, letting my feet feel the chill of the stone. With each step, my heartbeat grew louder, not from exertion but from the weight of what I carried.
I pushed myself to my feet, joints stiff from sleeping on the floor. My hand reached for the ring instinctively — always the ring first — and slipped it into the inner pocket of my kurta. I changed into simple white clothes, the kind I always wore on this day. The fabric was light, but my chest still felt heavy.
The morning air was crisp as I stepped outside, but the sky already carried that faint gold of sunrise.
The temple gates stood open when I arrived. This was my first stop, always. The mandir was quiet at this hour, the marble floor cool under my bare feet.
I fetched the small brass bucket from its place in the corner, filling it with fresh water from the well. The handle was cold in my palm, and the water sloshed gently as I carried it to the sanctum. One by one, I poured it over the idols — a soft, steady stream that washed away the dust. The scent of wet stone rose into the air.
After that came the cloth — clean, white cotton. I wiped the surfaces with slow, deliberate movements, careful not to rush. I replaced the old garlands with fresh marigold and jasmine, their fragrance curling around me.
Pujari ji was already there when I stepped back.
Inside, the mandir was already alive in its own quiet way. The walls were lined with brass lamps, some lit, their flickering flames painting shifting gold on the marble floor. The main sanctum glowed in soft yellow light, the deity adorned in fresh flowers — orange marigolds, red hibiscus, strands of white jasmine — their fragrance mingling with the incense smoke curling lazily upward.
Pujari ji — guru ji to me — stood near the yajna kund, arranging items in a meticulous order only he seemed to understand. Bundles of dried wood rested neatly beside the square pit lined with bricks. Bowls of ghee, powdered herbs, small heaps of rice, and brass plates of fruits and sweets were laid out like a sacred map.
"Shivansh beta," pujari ji greeted me softly, his voice the kind that never broke the stillness but somehow deepened it. "I was waiting."
I nodded. "We'll begin."
He had spread a red cloth over the low table and was arranging the samagri for the yajna — copper vessels, bowls of rice, ghee, camphor, sandalwood sticks, a small mound of havan samidha. The rhythmic sound of the bell in his hand filled the space, soft yet unyielding.
I knelt beside him as he began the mantras. The Sanskrit syllables rolled through the air like waves — steady, ancient, and unbroken. I kept my eyes on the fire as he lit it, the thin smoke rising in graceful spirals.
The ritual started with purification.
Guruji handed me a small brass lota filled with water from the temple well. I poured it over my hands, then my face, the cold bite of it waking me fully. He marked my forehead with a tilak of sandalwood paste, the cool smear resting between my brows like an anchor.
We sat cross-legged before the kund. The wood inside crackled faintly as the first spark caught. Guruji chanted the opening mantras in a deep, steady rhythm — Sanskrit syllables I didn't fully understand but had heard enough times to feel them in my bones. I joined where I could, my voice uneven, but it didn't matter; the yajna didn't ask for perfection, only sincerity.
The fire grew.
Thin tendrils of smoke rose, carrying the scent of ghee and crushed herbs into the air. Guruji handed me the small spoon — sruk — and I poured ghee into the flames in measured drops. Each offering was timed with a chant, the sound of "Swaha" punctuating the air like the heartbeat of the ritual.
And all the while… I kept thinking of her.
Not as someone lost to me, not as someone who belonged only to the past — but as someone out there. Breathing. Hiding. Waiting. The fire's warmth against my skin felt almost like her touch, and it was unbearable how real it seemed. I wasn't here to send her soul peace. No. I refused to believe she needed that. I was here to ask — no, beg — the universe, the gods, anyone listening… to keep her safe. To guard her steps. To shield her from whatever it was that kept her away from me.
Midway through, pujari ji passed me a small bowl of havan samagri — a mix of fragrant wood powder, dried flowers, and herbs. I took a pinch between my fingers, the coarse texture gritty against my skin, and let it fall into the flames. The fire answered with a sudden flare, and the smoke curled toward the temple ceiling.
In that curl of smoke, I almost saw her face — not clearly, but enough for my chest to ache so sharply that I had to close my eyes.
The chants went on, faster now, the rhythm deepening. I lost track of time. It was only fire and mantra, ghee and herbs, my voice blending with Guruji's. The outside world dissolved.
When the final mantras came, pujari ji poured a last stream of ghee into the fire, and I followed. The flames leapt high once, then softened, settling into a steady burn. We offered the fruits and sweets to the deity, touching them to the feet of the idol before setting them aside as prasad.
Pujari ji placed his hand on my head.
"She is watched over, beta," he said simply.
I didn't tell him I didn't believe she needed watching from the other side. I didn't say that my prayer wasn't for her soul, but for her living body, somewhere out there in the vast, cruel world.
Because even now, as the fire died down and the temple air cooled, the stubborn ember inside me refused to die.
She was still out there. I knew it.
When the yajna ended, I pressed my forehead to the cool marble before the deity, breathing in the mingled scent of incense, flowers, and smoke. My palms came together in a final namaskar.
"Today we pray for her soul's safety," Guruji murmured. "Wherever she is, may she be at peace."
ॐ नमः शिवाय
With this last shlok i offers my last prayers to lord shiva.
I offered the ghee, one spoonful at a time, the flames leaping with each drop. In my mind, I repeated the same silent plea I'd made every year — not for myself, not for answers, but for her. Always for her.
From there, I walked to the gurudwara.
The moment I stepped inside, the sound of kirtan wrapped around me like a warm shawl. The shabad being sung was slow, reverent — each word a reminder of surrender and grace. I removed my shoes, washed my hands, and covered my head with a simple white cloth.
I joined the sangat, sitting cross-legged on the smooth floor, letting the vibrations of the tabla and harmonium seep into me. I closed my eyes, whispering my ardaas — asking Waheguru to keep her safe, to guide her wherever she was.
Before leaving, I bowed low before the Guru Granth Sahib, my forehead touching the carpet. The sevadaars handed me a small portion of karah prasad. Its warmth lingered in my hands, the sweetness grounding me in a way nothing else could.
My second stop was the church, a tradition I had added later — not because I was Christian, but because I believed that if there was even a chance God listened in different languages, I would speak them all.
The church was nearly empty at that hour. The sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, painting the pews in fragments of blue, red, and gold. I lit a single white candle, placing it beneath the statue of Mary, and sat in the front pew.
The silence here was different — not heavy, but deep, like water. I bowed my head, whispering,
"Keep her in Your light."
Then last stop to Majid, I went first to the washing area. The sound of running water filled the space, mingling with the faint cooing of pigeons somewhere above.
Sitting on the low stone seat, i performed slowly, deliberately — washing my hands, rinsing to my mouth, gently cupping water to cleanse my face.
The shock of coolness jolted my senses for a moment, but it also brought clarity. My mind is still, focusing only on the sequence: right arm, left arm, wiping over the head, then washing my feet. Every drop of water felt like it was rinsing away dust from my heart.
When i entered the prayer hall, the carpet's softness underfoot felt like stepping onto clouds. The air was scented faintly with attar, and sunlight poured through the high arched windows, falling in golden patterns on the floor. I walked forward, each step measured, and stood at the back for a moment, watching.
The imam's voice began — low, steady, carrying a rhythm that felt eternal. I followed, bowing with the others, lowering himself to sujog, my forehead pressed against the carpet. And in that position, i stayed for a few seconds longer than needed.
In my heart, the words were not in Arabic alone. They were my own language, my own plea:
"Protect her. Keep her safe. If she is lost, guide her back. If she is hiding, give her courage to return. If she is far away, let her know I'm still waiting."
When the prayer ended, i remained seated for a moment, hands raised in dua. I didn't care that my eyes were wet again — here, tears were not a weakness; they were a form of prayer.
As I rose and stepped out into the sunlight, i felt the marble warm now beneath my feet. I slipped my shoes back on, casting one last look at the towering minarets.
Author's POV
The smoke from the yajna fire still clung faintly to his clothes, the warm scent of ghee and sandalwood lingering in the folds of his kurta. As the last mantra faded into silence and the pujari ji offered him the final aarti plate, Shivansh cupped his hands reverently, letting the flickering flame's warmth brush his skin before bowing his head to touch his forehead with his fingertips. He took the prasad without even looking at it — the sweetness of it felt almost out of place in his mouth, because his heart was heavy, too heavy for anything to taste good.
But the rituals weren't over. Not for him.
He had decided long ago that for her — for Isha — prayers should rise from every faith, every path that touched the divine. It wasn't about boundaries or religions. It was about covering every corner of heaven so that wherever she was, she was protected.
Leaving the mandir, the sound of temple bells still echoing in his ears, he made his way to the guru wara, church and last Masjid. It was mid-morning now, the sunlight sharp yet softened by the pale mist that still hung over the streets. The masjid's white marble minarets rose ahead of him, catching the light so that they almost glowed. The courtyard was quiet, only a few men walking slowly towards the entrance, shoes in their hands.
Shivansh paused at the steps, bending down to remove his own footwear, placing them neatly to the side. The marble floor was cool under his feet as he stepped into the open courtyard. The air inside felt different — calmer, thicker somehow, as if the very atmosphere carried the weight of countless whispered prayers.
Then, without speaking to anyone, he made his way home. The city noise seemed distant, almost muffled, as if he were walking inside a bubble of silence. Today's journey — mandir, yajna, guru wara, church, masjid — wasn't for closure. He didn't believe in that word. It was for continuity. For the hope that refused to die inside him.
When he finally reached his house, the rooms greeted him with their familiar quiet. He set down his phone and keys, but instead of going to his study or bedroom, he simply sat in the living area, staring at nothing. The prayers had been offered. The rituals completed.
But the wait… the wait continued.
By the time he returned home, the day had fully woken. The streets were noisier, brighter, but he carried with him the stillness of the morning's prayers.
No matter where she was — whether in another life, another world, or nowhere at all — he had done what he could.
And tomorrow, he would do it again.
The house greeted him with that strange, oppressive quiet that only large, empty spaces seem to have — where every sound, even the creak of a floorboard or the faint hum of an AC, feels too loud. Shivansh pushed the door shut behind him without looking back, his steps echoing faintly in the marble corridor as he made his way deeper inside.
He didn't stop at the living room or his study. His feet, almost of their own accord, took him to that room.
The handle was smooth beneath his fingers — he had replaced it months ago with a brass one because the old one had started to lose its shine. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he turned it and pushed the door open.
The moment he stepped in, the air changed. It wasn't just a room. It was… her.
And going towards the room which gives him peace for past years.
Sunlight spilled in through half-drawn curtains, falling across walls that were entirely hers — covered in framed photographs of every size. Some were small, candid shots in thin black frames, capturing moments when she wasn't even aware of the camera.
Others were large portraits, and one… one took up almost the entire wall: a painting he had done himself. The brushstrokes were deliberate yet gentle, the kind you wouldn't expect from someone who pretended he didn't have the patience for art. The colors were soft but alive, almost breathing with her warmth.
There were sketches too — on the side table, pinned to a corkboard, even tucked into the mirror's frame. Charcoal outlines of her smile, watercolor captures her eyes. It was the one thing he had never spoken about to anyone — not his family, not his closest friends. Painting wasn't just a hobby. It was his hidden sanctuary, and she had been his only subject for years.
On the shelf by the window sat little things he had collected — a scarf she once wore, a pair of bangles she had left behind, an old book with her handwriting in the margins.
He closed the door behind him and walked to the center of the room, his eyes scanning every corner. It was almost too much — too much of her in one space, too many reminders.
His throat tightened.
He sat down slowly on the floor leaning against the sofa which was leaning on the wall, elbows resting on his knees, and stared at the painting in front of him.
and sat on the ground with the support of the sofa and took the photo frame from the side of the coffee table.
Start talking to the frame "i miss u so much, please came back; everyone say you will not came to me, just prove them wrong please now i can't take it anymore.
I know what i did is wrong but please i love you so much jaana please come back." With this i visions become blurry.
Minutes passed. He didn't move. He just… stared. The longer he looked, the more the edges blurred — until the image wasn't just paint anymore, but her.
And then, without warning, the tears came. Not the restrained kind he could blink away — these were raw, heavy, unguarded. They slid down his face silently at first, but soon his shoulders shook, his chest tightening with each uneven breath.
It wasn't only her absence. It was the hollow space where his family used to be, the dinners he didn't attend, the laughter he hadn't heard in months. Everything felt so far away.
He reached for his phone almost instinctively, his fingers trembling slightly as he scrolled to Ranveer's name. Pressing call, he wiped his face with his sleeve, trying to steady his voice.
The line clicked.
"Shiv!?" Ranveer's voice was warm but cautious, as if he already sensed something in the silence.
Shivansh took a breath.
"What's… what's everyone doing?" His voice was low, rough.
There was a pause on the other end before Ranveer answered, "They're at the main temple. Doing the yajna."
Shivansh leaned back against the couch, his eyes still fixed on the painting. "The main temple…" he repeated softly, almost to himself.
"Yeah," Ranveer continued. "It's crowded there, you know how it is. Pandits, the whole setup, people coming in and out. They wanted to do it with the family all together. Why? Where did you—"
"I didn't go there," Shivansh cut in. His tone wasn't defensive, just… distant. "I went somewhere else."
Ranveer was quiet for a moment. "Somewhere else?"
"A temple… far away. Isolated. No one really knows about it." His voice dropped further, almost a whisper. "I found it once… when I was… broken. I don't even know why I went there that day, but—" he stopped, swallowing hard. "It was the only place that felt like I could breathe."
On the other end, Ranveer didn't rush him. The silence was heavy but understanding.
"I did the yajna there today," Shivansh went on. "Not for… not for letting go. I'm not ready for that. I just… I wanted her to be safe. Wherever she is." His gaze shifted to the corner of the room, where a smaller frame held a photo of her laughing, head tilted slightly, eyes closed. "I don't believe she's gone, Ranveer. Not completely. There's something… something that tells me she's still out there. Maybe hiding. Maybe… waiting."
Ranveer sighed softly. "Shiv.."
"I know what everyone thinks," Shivansh interrupted. "I know they think I'm holding on to something that's not there. But until I see proof… I can't… I won't accept it."
His voice cracked on the last word, and for a moment neither of them spoke.
"Alright," Ranveer finally said, his tone gentle. "If that's what you believe, then that's what it is. I'll… I'll tell the family you're fine. You're fine, right?"
Shivansh didn't answer immediately. He glanced around the room again — at the paintings, the photos, the little traces of her that still breathed in the air.
"I'm… here," he said at last, which wasn't quite the same as fine.
When the call ended, he didn't leave the room. Instead, he shifted so that he was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the couch, knees drawn up. The late afternoon light had begun to fade, casting long shadows across the walls.
And there he stayed — staring, remembering, holding on to the hope that somewhere, somehow, she was doing the same.
Shivansh sank deeper into the worn armchair, the dim lamp casting shadows across the room filled with her likeness — paintings, sketches, photographs — each one a piece of her he had clung to for years. His fingers trembled as they traced the edge of the journal on his lap, the page turned to a painting of her face, eyes soft and knowing, lips curved in a hint of a smile.
He pressed the journal to his chest, rocking slightly as his body shook with grief. "Why… why did this happen? Why me? Why now?" he whispered, voice thick, choked with tears. "It's all my fault. It's because of me… everything… everything I touch… it breaks, it… it gets ruined."
Tears fell freely, soaking the pages as he buried his face in them. "First, because of me… ritika left us. And now… now… you too…" He paused, choking on the words, staring at her painted eyes as if she could answer him, forgive him. "But I know… I know from where you are… from where you are, laughing maybe… happy… healthy… enjoying life…" His voice cracked. "And here I am, broken, and you… you're… trying to fight for me, even now…"
He raised his head, staring at the painting in disbelief, almost accusingly. "You're fighting for me? You're sick because of me? Because of everything I've done? Because of the life I… I ruined? You… you shouldn't have to. You… you don't deserve this…"
Shivansh's shoulders heaved, the room filled with the sound of his own ragged breathing and stifled sobs. "I… I don't get along with anyone… with anyone in my life. Not like this. Not like I feel for you." His hands gripped the edges of the journal so tightly the leather creased. "I… I love you too much… too much to… to let anyone else… to let anyone else take my place in your heart… even myself."
He buried his face again in the pages, tears dripping onto the painted portrait of her. "It's not about me… it's never about me. It's only… only you. It's always you… you, and I… I can't even think of anyone else. No one… no one matters… only you…"
His words grew louder, desperate, repeating themselves as if speaking them again and again could somehow absolve him, could somehow bridge the distance between them. "I want to be with you. I don't care about me… it's always been you. Always! And yet… yet I feel so… powerless… so small… so undeserving…"
He paused, choking on a sob, staring at her painted eyes as if willing them to speak back, to reassure him. "Why… why did I let this happen? Why did I let it all go… and you… you had to suffer because of me…?"
His fingers caressed her face on the painting, trembling, desperate. "I… I love you… I love you so much… it hurts… it hurts so much that I… I can't… I can't… I can't breathe without thinking of you, without feeling you… without being… lost in you…"
And then he pressed his forehead to the frame, tears sliding down his cheeks in an unstoppable river. "I can't… I can't live without you. I can't… I can't… I can't think of anyone else… because it's only you… only you, Isha… always only you…"
He stayed like that, shaking, whispering her name over and over, rocking slightly, until the silence of the room pressed against him. The phone sat ignored, buzzing in the distance, but for now, nothing existed except him, her painted gaze, and the weight of his own guilt and love crushing him.
The room had grown darker now. The sun had disappeared entirely behind the horizon, leaving only the dim glow of a single lamp in the corner. Shadows stretched across the walls, merging with the photographs and paintings of her, so many pieces of her he had held onto over the years. He was still sitting on the floor, back against the couch, holding one of the frames in his hands — her image frozen in time, yet somehow alive in his memory.
He whispered to it softly, almost as if she were really there, listening. "I don't care what anyone says… I know you're out there. I can feel it. I can feel you." His voice broke as he leaned forward, pressing his forehead to the frame. The tears had returned, slower this time, heavier, as if his heart was trying to pour itself into the photo.
And then, almost imperceptibly at first, his phone buzzed on the floor beside him. He didn't move. He didn't even glance at it.
The screen lit up: incoming call. Unknown Number.
He ignored it, returning his attention to the frame in his hands, speaking softly again. "I'll find you. No matter where… no matter how long it takes."
The phone rang again, insistent. This time, a little louder. Another unknown number. His thumb hovered over the screen, but he didn't pick up. His voice barely above a whisper, he muttered, "Not now… I'm busy. I'm… busy."
It rang a third time. And a fourth. The fifth time, it lit up again, and this time he didn't ignore it. Something deep inside him, a mixture of frustration, grief, and exhaustion, compelled him to answer — ready to yell at whoever dared disturb him in this sanctuary of pain.
"Hello!" His voice was sharp, raw, the kind that could slice through steel. "Who is this? Do you know—"
"Sir," came the voice on the other end. Calm, steady, but urgent. "It's Raghav… your Secretary."
Shivansh froze. For a moment, his heart seemed to stop beating. Raghav…? His fingers tightened around the frame, knuckles whitening. "Raghav? What… what is it? Why are you calling now? I'm busy—"
"Sir, you need to listen," Raghav said, voice even more controlled now. "I saw… Isha Mam. She's… she's alive."
" Sir is_ha isha mam is in italy i saw her in front of our company from my cabin but when i reached here she sat in her car and go away but i check cctv and i got the number plate no. you came here in that time i try to find her."
The words hung in the air, impossible, yet somehow perfect. Alive. Alive.
Shivansh felt the frame tremble in his hands. His breathing hitched. "W-what… where?" His voice was barely a whisper, as if speaking louder would shatter this fragile reality.
"She… she was in front of the office, sir. In Italy. Just now. Healthy. Alive. Standing. I—"
Shivansh's eyes widened as the words sunk in. The room around him blurred. Five years of grief, longing, despair — every memory of empty nights, every tear shed over her absence, every heartbeat that had thudded painfully in silence — seemed to explode in that single revelation.
He gripped the frame so tightly it cracked slightly at the corner, but he didn't care. He could barely breathe, let alone care about a crack in the glass. His knees buckled, and he fell forward onto the floor, clutching it to his chest, whispering hoarsely, "No… no… it can't… it can't… but… alive?"
"Yes, sir. She… she is alive. I saw her. I'm serious, sir. I… don't know how she got there, but she was there. Standing, looking… well."
Shivansh's mind was a whirlwind. Alive. Standing. Breathing. Laughing somewhere in the world. His chest tightened, but not with sorrow this time. With hope. With a longing so deep it made him shiver.
"I… I have to… I'm coming. Tonight. Italy," he whispered, almost to himself, voice hoarse with disbelief. "I don't care what it takes… I'm leaving tonight."
" I'm coming you do whatever but find her and talk to Mr russo so, that he can deal wih his country law. " I said
Raghav hesitated for a moment on the line, as if knowing that words would fail him. "Sir… you should rest… it's late—"
"Rest?" Shivansh snapped, but not harshly. There was no room in his body for rest, not tonight. "I've waited five years. Five years! And now… now she's there, and I… I have to see her. I… I have to make sure she's safe. Alive. Right now."
He sat back for a moment, still clutching the photo, breathing heavily, staring at nothing but the small light of the lamp. "I… I can't… I can't believe it. I… I waited so long. I thought… I thought I lost her forever." His fingers traced the edges of the frame. "And she… she's alive… she's really alive."
The call ended on the line. Shivansh didn't move. He just sat there, gripping the frame, eyes closed, forehead pressed to the glass, letting the weight of hope and disbelief wash over him. He could feel the pulse of his own heart — pounding, racing, breaking and rebuilding all at once.
Finally, he whispered into the stillness of the room, as if speaking directly to her presence somewhere far away:
"I found you. I… I'll come to you. I'll… I won't wait anymore. Wherever you are… I'm coming."
He put the frame back to her place and stand up & look around the room where only my jaana photos frame and painting is.
He was whispering 'i'm coming jaana be safe. Do whatever you want to do with it but please don't leave me.'
'Be safe jaana be safe.' While chatting this he came to his room start ready for meet his jaana.
The night outside the window was black and silent. But inside, Shivansh's world had shifted completely — the room, the paintings, the memories, the loneliness — none of it mattered anymore. All that mattered was the single, undeniable truth: she was alive. And he would cross oceans to find her.
Shivansh stood in front of the mirror, his reflection sharp and taut, but his eyes betrayed the storm inside. For the first time in five long years, the thought of seeing her again made his pulse race uncontrollably. Five years—years of emptiness, of haunted memories, of longing that never eased. And now… now he has a chance, no matter how fleeting, to find her, to see her alive, to hold her again.
His fingers moved almost automatically, choosing the clothes she would have loved. Black—always black. He could still remember the way she draped herself, the way the fabric kissed her form, the subtle elegance in the simplicity of it. He picked the shirt, crisp and tailored, exactly like she would have liked him to wear. The jacket—fitted, sharp, yet understated. He ran his hands over the fabric, straightening the folds, making sure everything was perfect. The style she liked… he tried to emulate it, to become a version of himself that would speak to her, a silent homage to the woman he had loved more than life itself.
The watch. He paused for a moment, holding it in his palm. The leather strap had worn slightly, but he didn't care. This was the watch he had given her, the one she had once smiled at and called perfect. Now it would sit on his wrist, a tether between the present and the memory of her. He fastened it carefully, his fingers trembling slightly, feeling the weight of both the metal and the years of longing it represented.
He adjusted his cufflinks, polished shoes, and checked his reflection again. Every movement is precise, deliberate, yet fuelled by raw emotion. He wasn't just getting ready—he was preparing for the moment he would finally see her, the moment he had imagined for years.
Shivansh moved quickly, almost feverishly. There was no time for hesitation, no room for second thoughts. He grabbed his phone, his mind racing ahead. The airport—far, congested, chaotic. He didn't care about normal procedures, about traffic, about formalities. She was alive, she was in front of him somewhere, and nothing else mattered.
He was whispering, "I know jaana you're angry with me but we will clear everything.
If you want you can slap me, beat me, stab me, shoot me but please leave me alone again i can't live without you.
I will meet my jaana so i have to look good i know how my jaana likes me i get ready just like how my jaana like." He came out of his penthouse, he lives in his penthouse after she left him.
He came towards lift why this lift taking so much time to go down.
He came out of the lift going toward his car. Start driving for airport but think to tell this to veer. He came out of the lift going toward my car.
Sliding into his car, he felt a rare surge of urgency. His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, knuckles whitening. He started the engine, the purr of the car a sharp contrast to the storm of thoughts inside him. His heart thumped like a war drum. Every second counted now. Every delay was unbearable.
Start driving for the airport but think to tell this to veer.
He pulled out his phone and dialed the number he knew would execute his commands without question. "Clean it up," he said sharply, voice low but urgent. "Traffic. Every signal. Every blockage. Clear it. Now. I need to reach the airport without stopping. And handle everything there. Every security measure. Every formal procedure—I want it expedited."
His mind was already moving ahead, imagining her waiting, imagining the moment he would finally see her alive. A private jet. He had stopped using it long ago—too much family heritage tied to it, too much symbolism he had long refused to touch. But now… now it doesn't matter. His only thought was reaching her as fast as humanly possible. He needed that jet. Emergency clearance. Immediate departure. No delays.
He glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror, smoothing the fabric of his jacket again. "I wish I could just find you soon… just be there," he muttered under his breath. The car moved forward, tires humming against the road, but the city around him felt like it was dragging, every red light, every slowing vehicle a mockery of his urgency.
He was driving so fast because his penthouse is 2 hours away from the airport.
He tried to call his veer again from the car, fingers dialing frantically. But then… something happened. A hesitation in the line, a delay, a tone that wasn't the one he expected. His pulse quickened, uneasy creeping in. He didn't know what it was yet, but instinctively, he felt it mattered. Every muscle in his body tensed as he gripped the wheel tighter, eyes flicking to the rearview, to the road ahead. Every second now felt like a lifetime.
His mind raced—traffic, jet, airport, her… alive. She was alive. Somewhere. Right now. He could feel it. And he would do anything, go anywhere, stop at nothing to reach her. The night was falling fast, shadows stretching across the city streets, but Shivansh's mind saw only one thing: her face, her eyes, the faint smile that had haunted him for years.
He exhaled sharply, a mixture of anticipation and anxiety, and pressed the accelerator further. Nothing would stop him. Not traffic, not distance, not the weight of the world. She was alive, and he would get to her. He had waited five years for this—five years of longing, of guilt, of despair. And now… now it is his moment.
While driving he called veer. So, he can handle every thing at airport.
Shivansh's fingers trembled over his phone as he dialed veer's number, urgency clawing at his throat. The city lights blurred past his vision as his heart hammered against his chest. "veer… I need access to the private jet. Now. It's urgent. Everything's ready—I just need you to handle it," he said, voice tight, controlled, but every syllable dripping with desperation.
Veer's calm voice came through the line, but Shivansh could barely listen. His eyes were glued to the road, to the thought of Isha, alive and waiting, somewhere far away, yet closer with every second he accelerated. He repeated the details, precise and hurried, directing Reid to coordinate with the pilot, to clear the runway, to make this happen faster than anyone could imagine.
But suddenly a truck came in front of his car before he could do something it hit his car.
But in the midst of his planning, in the whirlwind of adrenaline and longing, he didn't notice the truck barreling ahead. A sudden flash of metal, a roar of collision, and the world exploded around him. The car was hit with a force that lifted it off the ground, spinning uncontrollably, the night sky and city lights twisting into a dizzying blur.
Time slowed. Sound became distorted—glass shattering, metal twisting, tires screeching in protest. And his car moves from the road that hit was so powerful that his car flipped.
And in that chaos, there was only one thought in Shivansh's mind, pure and unshakable, cutting through the roar of destruction:
"I love you… Janna. I love you so much. I didn't cheat. There was no one else… only you."
The car flipped again, and again, each rotation a violent ballet of metal and fear. His phone slipped from his grasp, Reid's voice calling his name, urgent, panicked, distant… but fading into the chaos.
Shivansh's vision darkened, edges of reality blurring into blackness. The city, the car, the night—it all dissolved into one singular feeling: the raw, desperate, consuming love he had carried for five years, now clashing violently against the fragility of life itself.
Everything went silent. Except the echo of one final thought that refused to leave him, even as darkness claimed his consciousness:
"I love you, Janna… I love you."
And everything started blank The last thing he heard was the veer voice he was calling his name continually.
He was only whispering and imagine.
Only her,
I LOVE YOU,
I LOVE YOU JAANA,
I NEVER LOVE SOMEONE ELSE OTHER THAN YOU,
I LOVE YOU SO MUCH
AND WITH THIS
EVERYTHING WENT BLANK.
On the other hand,
The living room was heavy with exhaustion. Everyone sat in silence, drained by the chaos of the day. Ranveer kept calling him again, but he didn't answer. Each ring sliced through the quiet, adding to the tension. Finally, after the fifth ring, he whispered, "He… he's not picking up."
But none of them moved. He could only listen—listen to the faint sounds of… something. Crashing? Metal twisting? A distant scream? It was unclear, distorted, as if reality itself had been fragmented through the line.
Then, Ranveer again tries to call him. This time, Shivansh father, anxious and stern, demanded, "What's happening? Why are you calling someone again and again? Veer… tell me, what happened?"
Veer's voice trembled as he relayed the situation. "bade papa… it was a call from Shivansh. He… he was talking about something urgent—needed excess of jet, some plans to go to Italy. But then… then there was a sound. A crash… like something hit him. He didn't answer after that. I… I couldn't hear him properly. And call cut I—"
Shivansh's father's eyes widened, disbelief and fear clashing in his gaze. "A crash? What do you mean? Veer, are you sure? Is he hurt? Is he… safe?"
Veer swallowed hard. "I… I don't know. But i was trying to call, i… i tried so many times. I… I didn't want to panic, but then…" His voice broke.
"Then what? Speak clearly!" Shivansh chote papa barked, tension now electrifying the air.
Veer's hands trembled as he clutched his phone. "Then I called his guard. They said… they said they would check. But… it sounded bad. It sounded like… like he—" He couldn't finish.
Shivansh's mother moved closer, fear etched on her face. "What do you mean it sounded bad? Explain!"
Veer took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "I don't know exactly. But after the crash… I tried calling him again. Nothing. Then… I just wanted to make sure he's okay."
Shivansh's father's voice softened slightly, a mix of worry and guilt. "Veer… you did everything you could. Calm down."
But Veer couldn't stop the guilt from spilling over. "No, bade papa! I should've answered him immediately! I should've insisted! I… I didn't know he was in danger. I should have—" His voice cracked, tears streaking down his face.
Shivansh's mother held him, whispering, "Shh… it's not your fault, Veer. You tried. That's all anyone could do."
Ranveer, still tense, sat frozen. "Avi Tap his number. NOW. I need to know where he is. I need to know he's safe." His voice, though urgent, carried the weight of fear that only those who love someone dearly could understand.
Avi nodded, fumbling with his phone, hands shaking. "Yes… yes, bhai sa. I'll do it immediately."
The room was silent except for the faint hum of phones connecting. Each second dragged, each heartbeat magnified by the uncertainty. Shivansh's father, pacing now, muttered under his breath, "Why him? Why is this happening…?" His voice was full of helpless guilt, each word heavy with the dread of not being able to protect his son—Shivansh.
Ranveer whispered, almost to himself, "Please… please let him be okay. Please let him be safe…"
Avi, voice quivering, finally said, "bhai sa, the number's tapped. I… I can hear faint sounds now. Sir… it's… I think he's alive. He's… he's breathing. But… he… he might be hurt."
Ranveer closed his eyes, relief and fear warring inside him. "Thank God… thank God he's alive. Guards, get me a vehicle immediately. I have to reach him. I… I can't wait another second."
Avi's voice broke again, guilt layered in every word. "bhai sa… I… I should've acted faster. I… I didn't—"
Aviyansh's father placed a hand on his shoulder, firm but gentle. "avi… you did everything you could. We'll get him. We will. But don't carry this guilt alone. Not one of us could've prevented this moment."
The living room, once heavy with exhaustion, is now filled with frantic preparation. Phones were out, cars were starting, and every person in the room knew the one thought that dominated their hearts: Shivansh had to be found, had to be safe, no matter the cost.
And in that quiet, tense moment, every one of them silently whispered a prayer—one shared wish across distance and danger: Please, Shivansh… come back to us.
The moment Ranveer realized the crash had happened while Shivansh was on the phone with him, his heart skipped a beat. His hands trembled as he clutched the phone tighter, Shivansh's father his voice rising instinctively. "Veer! What happened? Tell me! What—what's wrong?!"
Veer's voice was shaky, thick with panic. "bade papa, I don't know exactly. It sounded like the car—something hit him. maybe a truck, I couldn't hear after that."
Shivansh father's breath caught. "No… no, this can't be happening! Where is he? Where is he right now?"
Avi's father, pacing back and forth behind him, slammed a hand on the table. "Veer! Calm down. Tell us everything clearly. How did this happen? Where exactly?"
Veer swallowed hard. "bade papa, he was on the phone. Talking about something important. He said he wanted to go early, to use his private jet, he wanted to go to Italy, maybe. But then there was a crash. I don't know if he's hurt."
Ranveer's mind whirled. He bolted from the room. "We're going. We have to go now!" His voice was sharp, but his chest felt tight, almost impossible to breathe. He couldn't wait another second. Every second felt like an eternity.
Shivansh father followed, frantic. "Ranveer, wait! Where—where are you going?"
"To him! To Shivansh! He's hurt—he could be badly hurt!" Ranveer shouted, ignoring the tremble in his own voice.
Avi tried to catch up, running behind him. "bhai sa, maybe we should inform this to other family—"
Ranveer shook his head, eyes blazing. "No. We go first. Then we call them. If he's safe, we need to reach him before anything worse happens."
Meanwhile, the rest of the family had gathered.
Shivansh's mother, tears brimming in her eyes, whispered, "Could it really… could it really be him? After everything… after so many years of distance…" Her voice trembled. Even after five years of not speaking, this was still her son, her blood.
"I don't know, maa sa. " Ranveer said, his voice breaking. "I just… I got the call… and then there was this… sound. Something terrible. I have to see him, I have to know he's alive."
Shivansh father frowned, worry and guilt clashing on his face. "Go then… but we go together. He's family. We can't let him—"
Ranveer nodded. "Yes. We'll go together."
Shivansh choti maa, overhearing, stepped forward. "We should go to the hospital, bhabhi sa . It's our hospital. We'll have doctors ready, equipment… we can help immediately."
Ranveer looked at her, eyes still wide with fear. "Yes… yes, that's a good idea. Let's do that. If anything—if he's hurt badly, we can't waste time."
Shivansh mother, voice wavering but firm, added, "I'll go with you. I'll check his vitals… oxygen, heart rate… everything. We can stabilize him before it gets worse."
The group moved quickly, adrenaline giving them strength. Ranveer ran with Aviyansh beside him, both of them keeping pace with each step, hearts hammering. Behind them, shivansh's father and uncle followed closely, the weight of fear pressing down on each of them.
"bhai sa," Avi called, voice tight with anxiety. "Tell me… tell me exactly where he was supposed to go. Every detail… every turn… it could help the guards find him faster."
Ranveer's jaw clenched. "We'll see soon enough. Just keep up, okay?"
As they neared the location, the air felt tense, almost suffocating. Every minute dragged, each second stretching into eternity. And then, finally… there it was.
The car. Flipped. Metal twisted and crumpled. Shattered glass glimmered in the streetlight. Smoke drifted upward in thin, eerie streams. The scene was surreal, almost like a nightmare made real.
Ranveer's heart nearly stopped. "Oh… my God… Shivansh…" he whispered, running closer. His father and uncle reached his side, shielding him instinctively, though they were terrified themselves.
Aviyansh voice breaking, said, "This… this is it… this is the crash… we… we have to get him out."
Ranveer knelt beside the car, hands trembling as he tried to assess. "Avi! The guards! We need them here! Now!"
Smoke curled around the twisted metal, the smell of burnt rubber and fuel thick in the air. The sound of a distant siren echoed faintly, but to Ranveer, it was as if the world had slowed, leaving only him, the car, and the desperate thought: Please, Shivansh… please be alive.
The air was thick with smoke and the stench of burning rubber. The twisted car lay on its side like a mangled sculpture of metal. Ranveer's heart thumped in his chest, wild and unrelenting. Every second felt like a lifetime.
"Quick! Quick! We need to get him out now!" Ranveer shouted, adrenaline giving him strength he didn't know he had.
Aviyansh was already at his side, hands gripping Jeevans' shoulders, trying to carefully maneuver him out of the car. "Hold still, bhai sa! I've got you! Just stay with me, okay? Don't move too much!"
Shivansh groaned, weak and dazed, barely able to respond. His eyes flickered open, confusion and pain mixing in a haze. "A… Avi… what… happened?"
"You'll be okay, don't worry. We're getting you out," Aviyansh said, his voice firm but trembling slightly under the pressure.
Meanwhile, the guards were rushing around, some trying to secure the area, others preparing stretchers and medical equipment.
Aarya, however, moved methodically, almost detached, inspecting every detail of the wreck. His hands moved quickly over the tires, the shattered dashboard, the infotainment system, and even the map that had fallen out of the car.
"Take pictures," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "If this is deliberate, I want every clue. Every single detail. Nothing can be missed."
Click… click… the camera flashes were faint in the smoke, but Aarya's eyes didn't miss a single thing. Every scuff, every dent, every suspicious mark was being documented. He circled the car with precision, methodical, almost clinical.
Ranveer could barely focus on Aarya. All that mattered was getting Jeevans out. "Avi! Faster! I don't know how long this car will hold! Something feels… wrong!"
Aviyansh gritted his teeth. "I know! Almost there… almost…" With a final heave, they managed to lift Jeevans from the mangled vehicle. His body sagged in their arms, unconscious, but alive.
Ranveer's father ran up, voice cracking. "He's out! Shiv is out!"
"Move! Get back! Now!" Ranveer barked, realizing the imminent danger.
No sooner had shivansh body cleared the twisted metal than a deafening roar exploded behind them. Flames shot into the sky as the car erupted in a massive fireball. Pieces of burning debris flew through the air. The heat was intense, almost scorching their faces.
Ranveer, Aviyansh, and the guards bolted instinctively, dragging shivansh behind them. The blast had shattered the air around them, but they were far enough to avoid the worst. Dust, smoke, and sparks filled the street, but shivansh was safe—at least for now.
"Is he… okay? He's breathing!" Aviyansh gasped, kneeling beside Jeevans and checking his vitals.
Ranveer shook with relief but didn't let it show. "Yes, he's alive! Keep checking him! Don't stop!"
The rest of the guards and shivansh father and uncle were catching up. Aarya finally looked up from his meticulous inspection, grim expression on his face. "It was close. Too close. This… wasn't an accident."
Ranveer clenched his fists. "I know. But right now, I don't care who did it. We take him to the hospital. That's it. Everything else can wait."
Aviyansh nodded. "I'll go with him. I can monitor him on the way."
Shivansh father who had been following closely, stepped forward. "I'll come too. We'll be able to stabilize him faster at our hospital. We're prepared for every emergency."
Shivansh's father and uncle quickly joined, forming a protective circle around shivansh as they moved. "Hurry! Move! The ambulance is ready!" one of the guards shouted.
They loaded shivansh into the vehicle with the utmost care. Aviyansh stayed beside him, hands hovering over his chest, monitoring his breathing and pulse, whispering reassurances even as his own heart pounded.
"I'm here, bhai sa… I've got you. You're safe now. Don't fight it. Just stay with me."
Ranveer ran beside the vehicle, eyes fixed on the road ahead, scanning for any obstacles. Behind him, his father and uncle followed closely, and Aarya and guards trailed, worry etched into every line of their faces.
As they drove toward the hospital, the tension never eased. The vehicle moved fast, weaving through traffic, every second feeling like a lifetime. Ranveer's hands gripped the edge of the driving wheel, knuckles white.
Aviyansh murmured, "Stay calm, bhai sa… almost there. Almost safe."
Shivansh's father muttered, voice thick with guilt, "How did it come to this? How did it happen that our family—our people—almost lost him?"
Ranveer didn't answer. His eyes never left shivansh. His mind was only on one thought: He's alive. That's all that matters. He has to be alive.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the hospital came into view. The familiar white façade, the gleaming lights—it was a beacon of hope amidst the chaos. The vehicle skidded to a halt. Doctors and nurses rushed forward, guided by the trained hands of shivansh choti maa who immediately took charge.
"Take him inside! Prepare the ICU! We'll stabilize him!" she commanded, her voice strong despite the tears streaming down her face.
Ranveer and Aviyansh carefully lifted shivansh from the stretcher and into the hospital corridor. The emergency team took over, monitoring his vitals, administering oxygen, and preparing for any internal injuries.
Ranveer's heart still raced, but finally, a small measure of relief washed over him. Jeevans was alive. Against all odds, he was alive.
Aviyansh let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "He's alive… thank God, he's alive…"
Shivansh choti maawrapped a trembling hand around his shoulder. "We'll take care of him. Everything will be fine."
Ranveer nodded, but inside, guilt gnawed at him. He had brought him here, guided him… and yet, he couldn't shake the thought: What if we were a second too late?
Outside, the ruins of the car smoldered in the dark, a grim reminder of how close they had come to losing him forever.
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